


Sheets

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Striptease [7]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abruzzi and T-Bag have themselves a little afternoon delight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheets

“Come on, Teddy, hang a sheet.”

Coarse laughter, the rustling of fabric in the damp, cool morning air.

“I ain't gonna hang a sheet, John; you do it.”

“Jesus, Teddy, it was a joke!”

“Sorry. Habit.”

“Shut up, will you? I've had enough prison talk for a lifetime,” Lincoln said, accompanied by a sneeze from Michael. The engineer hadn't dealt too well with last night's storm; the rain and low temperature had given him his worst cold since he was ten.

“Bless ya, Pretty,” T-Bag said, tugging, on his end of the tent and thus yanking it from Abruzzi's grip. The mobster swore as his end fell into the mud.

The rain had soaked everything through. Their clothes, their sleeping bags, their tents. Michael had improvised a clothes line from a bit of string and a couple of branches, and they were currently struggling to hang their tents over some thicker branches to let them dry.

“My, this certainly brings back memories,” T-Bag grinned, winking at Abruzzi. The mobster rolled his eyes and adjusted the tent a bit, the two of them having finally gotten it over a branch.

“Don't,” C-Note warned. “If you're gonna start again then I'll take my share of the cash and call the feds to turn you in.”

Michael, halfway through a coughing fit, snorted a laugh and gratefully accepted the only semi-dry thing they had; a woollen blanket that had been strategically placed between his sleeping bag and field mattress; from Lincoln. As the warmth of the sun started taking hold of the day, the others – none of whom suffered a sore throat, runny nose or violent shivering – didn't actually need more clothing than their underwear (which was also rather damp, but which they kept on for peace's sake), but Michael was freezing his brains out.

Abruzzi was laying his sleeping bag out on a large rock for it to dry in the sun when he felt someone brush his side in passing. He stiffened, prepared to punch said someone in the face.

“Relax, John boy, 's just lil' old me. I couldn' resist, seein' you over here in nothin' but _them_ boxers...”

Abruzzi almost flinched, realizing he was wearing the skull boxers from the night of their show. Since then, they'd washed their clothes in little streams and ponds whenever they made camp. Apparently, a week and some laundry had done nothing to lessen the murderer's appreciation for them.

“You teasin' me, John? Wearin' those just to get me all edgy like? 'Cause I don't really see ya as the type, know what I'm sayin',” T-Bag said, stepping even closer to the taller man.

Abruzzi thrust his blanket at T-Bag. “Hang a sheet, right now.”

The heated authority in Abruzzi's voice made T-Bag lick his lips. Had anyone told him he had been bitchified (except John; he told him all the time), he would have killed them. But oh, how badly he wanted to be on his knees, sucking John Abruzzi until he moaned for more; or pushed up against a tree, begging for John to take him harder.

“Ain't no place to hang it,” T-Bag said, trying to step closer to Abruzzi still.

“I'm not drunk enough to be doing this right in front of everyone, in broad daylight,” Abruzzi snarled, reminding T-Bag of that night when Pretty had brought tequila and beer and they'd been at it until Pretty fell asleep in exhaustion. T-Bag groaned involuntarily at the remembered sensations and stepped towards the closest tree. Being at the outskirts of a forest, there were quite a few to choose from.

“Good boy.” Abruzzi smiled nastily and let the blanket fall to rest behind him and close them off from the other guys. The grey wool shielded him from his own inhibitions in a way only darkness and sheets had before.

“Off,” he commanded, and T-Bag obeyed, kicking off his own boxers almost too eagerly. Abruzzi grabbed the smaller man and shoved him up against the trunk of the tree, turning him roughly around so the murderer's back was to him.

“You know I like it rough, John boy,” T-Bag drawled, not fazed for a minute by the harsh treatment.

“Shut up, Theodore.” Abruzzi was too busy stroking possessive hands over smooth skin to pay much heed to what T-Bag said. The murderer shivered as Abruzzi harshly gripped his hips, pulling them closer to the mobster's own arousal.

“Wait a just second,” T-Bag panted, twisting in Abruzzi's grip until he was facing the taller man.

“You calling the shots now, Teddy?” Abruzzi demanded, trying to turn the other man around again. He would take the secret to his grave but seeing T-Bag like this; naked and sweaty and eager; had him painfully hard and desperate for the other man.

“Lubrication, John boy,” T-Bag smirked, sinking to his knees. “Never... ever... forget the lubrication.” With that, he wrapped his lips around Abruzzi and went to work.

“Clever,” Abruzzi moaned, trying to elaborate on some sort of intelligible reply but found his ability to string words together had taken a leave of absence. T-Bag swallowed down inch after inch of him, growling deep in his throat and banishing all coherent thought even further from Abruzzi's mind.

“There,” T-Bag grinned, licking wetly along the mobster's cock one last time, “all set.”

Abruzzi groaned and pulled the murderer quickly to his feet, shoved him violently against the trunk and grabbed his hip. T-Bag took the hint and turned around, leaning on the tree for support and spreading his legs eagerly.

“Ah shit,” the Alabamian moaned as Abruzzi traced a finger along his ass, “you know I won't last if you-”

“Like I care if you can't hold it,” the mobster growled before thrusting two fingers inside T-Bag. Abruzzi had fucked him far too much for him to still need this, but the mobster took a perverse pride in making T-Bag come before even starting to fuck him.

As T-Bag whimpered and arched his back, Abruzzi aimed for that spot inside the murderer that made him lose it every time. When Abruzzi hit it, T-Bag bit his lower lip but didn't stop the needy groan that made the mobster's head spin. T-Bag was the only man John Abruzzi knew of who could make a groan sound like that.

“Harder,” T-Bag begged, his hips pushing back against the digits shallowly fucking him. Abruzzi placed a firm hand on the smaller man's waist, holding him still, then curled three fingers inside him and licked his lips at the sharp intake of breath that earned him.

“You ready for me yet?” Abruzzi hissed in T-Bag's ear, knowing he was but wanting the other man to beg for it.

“Just fuck me already,” T-Bag laughed, and his laughter was cut short when Abruzzi shoved his fingers back in and hit his prostrate, hard. He tensed up, cried out, came in a wave of pleasure as John Abruzzi kept finger fucking him, not letting him down from his high until his knees buckled and he had to hug the tree trunk for balance.

“Now,” Abruzzi whispered in the murderer's ear, “I'm going to fuck you.”

T-Bag was panting, struggling to hold on to the trunk, as Abruzzi reached down to position himself. The smaller man exhaled heavily and willed his body to relax; it was too much too soon. But he could never stop himself when John Abruzzi was that close.

Abruzzi groaned as he pushed quickly inside T-Bag. Just as tight, just as hot as the first time he'd fucked him. He started biting and nipping along T-Bag's shoulder, moving towards that secret spot right behind the Alabamian's ear that would make his breath hitch and his body shiver.

“Mine,” he breathed into the murderer's ear, pressing his hips impossibly close and fencing T-Bag in between his arms, his body and the tree. “Mine.”

“Oh fuck,” T-Bag moaned, pushing back against every inch of Abruzzi's body.

The mobster started thrusting harder, deeper and slower. T-Bag's knees buckled again, he grabbed Abruzzi's hand on the tree trunk and clenched around him. Abruzzi's eyes rolled back, his mouth fell open in heavy breaths. _So close._

“Mine,” the taller man repeated in a growl and let go, releasing inside T-Bag with a shudder.

Flooding heat, strong pulling hands, that sharp bite to his neck. T-Bag cried out, bucked against Abruzzi, came over his hand, tipped his head back to give him full access to his hammering pulse. With a final nip to the base of the murderer's throat, both men sank slowly to the ground, heaving for breath.

As soon as he could find the strength, T-Bag scooted closer to the other man, tentatively touching his arm. Abruzzi glared at him, though this had nowhere near the desired effect, as the mobster felt too drained and too sated to really feel annoyed at the smaller man.

T-Bag moved closer yet. If he didn't stop soon, Abruzzi thought, he'd be lying underneath a murdering rapist blanket.

“Hey, it ain't cuddlin',” the Alabamian defended. “Jus' don't wanna get twigs and leaves up my ass.”

“Why not? They'd be in good company,” Abruzzi snorted, before sighing and resigning himself to the fact that T-Bag was going to get cuddly.

“Why? You got some o' them trouser trolls, John? 'Cause I sure know I didn't. Somethin' you been neglectin' to tell me 'bout?”

Abruzzi swore and slapped him upside the head. Damn it but the man couldn't even cuddle without getting nasty.

“Sink 's right, you're a pervert.”

“Takes one to know one, John boy.”

“Touché.”

***

“You just don't listen, do you?” C-Note said, throwing a rather big rock at the grey blanket between him and the love-bats on the other side.

“Shut up,” answered the angry snarl of John Abruzzi, accompanied by a chuckle from T-Bag.

“Too bad there aren't any real sheets,” Michael muttered, winking at Sucre. The Puerto Rican blushed furiously and looked the other way.

Lincoln cocked his head to one side, watching Michael curiously. “You did him in prison?”

Michael laughed. “No, I just ruined his reputation.”

Sucre scowled. “ _Coño_.” With that, he launched a stone of his own at the blanket and strode off.

An odd silence for a few heartbeats, then, “Say, John, you think we could get hold o' some real sheets? Jus' for atmosphere, know what I'm sayin'?”

**Author's Note:**

> This was the final instalment in the _Striptease_ Striptease II series!


End file.
